ANN ALLAN: HAPPY MEMORIES of EAST BELFAST

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I arrived in East Belfast in October 1966. I was 17 and apart from an exchange visit to France for a month I had never been away from home on my own. I came from Rostrevor,  a small seaside town and I was used to all the comforts of home. I had left school and was lucky to get a job in the Civil Service as a Clerical Officer. Things weren’t going too well at home as I had fallen for a young Scottish protestant. This was not on for a young Irish Catholic girl in those days. It was many years later when tracing my family tree that I discovered that I was not actually native Irish on my  father’s side. My ancestors had moved here from Somerset in the 1600 ‘s and intermarried. Oh the irony!

The local Parish Priest had been alerted that one of his flock was ‘walking out’ with a protestant and he was none too pleased.stock-photo-funny-hand-painted-priest-on-white-background-illustration-61934521

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In those days a trolley bus ticket into town was 4d and it was possible to walk home in the early hours of the morning from The Orpheus, The Astor and the students union at Queens, crossing the Queens bridge without any hassle. Those were carefree years and we enjoyed them to the full.  All the big groups came to Belfast and there was always a show to see. I saw the Beach Boys, Gene Pitney, Neil Sedaka, Them, to mention a few. I saw the premiere of The Sound of Music in the Odeon while the Free Presbyterians demonstrated outside, because of the Catholic theme of the film .
After a year a few us moved to a flat in the university area and my Scotish planter joined me up in Belfast. Within a short time the troubles started and the nights echoed to the sound of gunfire and bombs. The theatres closed and Belfast became a no go area for tourists. Many nights returning from home after the weekend, our bus was diverted through streets that had burning barricades and we travelled in fear of been hijacked.
But I loved Belfast and I returned to East Belfast with Gordon and we have been together for almost 49 years. I was 16 when we met and married at 21. We weren’t allowed to marry in my home town and I have happy memories of being escorted up the Crumlin Road by two army jeeps. We planted some seeds of our own and our offspring grew up mixing with all religions and kept ustormont play parkp the tradition set by their parents. East Belfast unfortunately gets bad press but it is a lovely place to live and I remember the 60’s with great affection.

TINA CALDER: THE IMAGE OF INSANITY (and the love of fat pants)

FIRST PUBLISHED: NOVEMBER 28, 2014 ~ EXCALIBURPRESS

Imagine the scene…I’ve tried on at least five dresses of which three I knew I hadn’t a hope in hell of fitting into even with the help of heavy plant machinery.

??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????*Sigh* I exasperated as I imagined how my fully sequinned vintage number would look on me in a parallel universe whilst the voice inside my brain was exclaiming “what planet are you on you mad cat, you’re still the size you were last time you tried this dust collector on”.

Next I was hunched over like a school child forced to wear a naff coat your great auntie Josephine bought and I had a short reminder of how I looked and felt while heavily pregnant in a dress that’s only redeeming quality is the plunging neckline.

On, off, on, off.

“Oh for fuck sake I suppose I better shave my legs” I moan.

“Curly or straight” I holler down the stairs to which I get a reply something along the lines of “curly, get a girlfriend”.

Can’t find a clean towel. Probably among the several bags of clean washing I have now scattered across the upper floor of our house. “This will do” as I fling it on the bathroom floor and hurriedly jump in the shower.

Legs shaved with Gillette Venus razor probably older than my nearly two year old son I’m on the hunt…

Disaster…

The fat pants are alluding me. I’m only a recent convert and somewhat still addicted to the fact that by carefully pouring every inch of my lower body into a teeny tiny pair of industrial elastic strength pantsfat-pants I can turn what looks like more than one roll of “baby weight” (ha…like it wasn’t hanging around before hand) in to a sleek curvature that almost looks natural – albeit bigger than I would prefer – but that’s the price of pizza *sigh*.

Anyway, the fat pant hunt is on…time is of the essence…let the angels rejoice they have been recovered.

Thanks to said fat pants I slide into a wee lacy number that more celebrates my lumps, bumps, curves and imperfections than attempts to conceal them.

“In for a penny, in for a pound” I say as I sing a wee line of “I am who I am, am who I am, needs no excuses” to make myself feel better.

For those who know me they will know I’m not overly vain but I’m not going to pretend I don’t care.

I’m not skinny, I never will be and I’m fine with that especially now I have discovered the true genius of fat pants at the grand old age of 36.

So here’s what I have to say to all the women who try to tell us that how we look doesn’t matter and what we wear doesn’t make a difference to who we are – BULLSHIT.

I like feeling good and I feel good when I delude myself into believing I look as good as I can with the help of some silly wee pants and a dollop of makeup.

I believe in a woman’s right to choose and this woman chooses the right to be a woman and to be free to feel like wearing fat pants and push up bras to make myself feel good.

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I don’t wear them for anyone else but me and why shouldn’t I? Why should I be subjected to people accusing me of buying into societies prejudice against women when the reality is it’s me who’s making this choice? And I’m bloody glad I did otherwise I would have been carrying around that spare tyre unnecessarily recently !

@ Tina Calder

http://www.moostoday.wordpress.com

Denise O’Neill: Oh Titanic of the Sea.

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I wrote this poem the day ‘Titanic Belfast’,  the wonderful tourist attraction,  was launched on 31st March 2012. I was inspired to write it by the fact that my grandfather, Hugh McGurnaghan, worked in the Belfast Shipyard.

He started as an apprentice wireman (electrician) on March 3rd 1919.  I have a copy of his Indenture (employment contract) with Harland and Wolff Ltd. framed and hanging on my wall.  Whilst he didn’t work on building the Titanic,  he started working in the shipyard only seven years after the tragic sinking of the ship and this fact instilled an emotional connection with me. 

I am so proud of my grandfather working in the shipyard. It was hard work and he had to travel from Lisburn every day, starting very early in the morning and getting home late in the evening. He earned 6 shillings per week for the first year,  working  his way up to 15 shillings per week in year five . At the bottom of the Indenture is his signature, written in the most beautiful handwriting (you can just see the formation of each letter being the result of hours and hours of practice at school – a practice sadly lost now). I never met my grandfather as he died four years before I was born but I love that I have a part of him, his signature, to look at.

I have visited the Titanic tourist attraction twice and it is beautiful – something that Belfast is very proud of. I hope you like my poem.



Oh Titanic of the Sea

Oh Titanic of the sea

I hear you cry …

What do you say to me?

 

When you left your place of birth

The men who built you knew your worth.

With majestic certainty you sailed away

But on Belfast shore it was your last day.

 

On 15th April when you went to bedimage

Many went with you, hundreds dead.

Men, women and children gone 

Missed by their loved ones … their memories live on.

 

For one hundred years you’ve been asleep

Hidden … troubled … in the deep. 

Awakened now, glistening and proud

As ‘Titanic Belfast’ we shout aloud!

 

Oh Titanic of the sea

I hear you cry …

What do you say to me?

 

 

By Denise O’Neill

31 March 2012

Ann Allan: Memories No 9 Welcome to the real world.

Over the next eight months there were many clandestine meetings. At the weekends I would return home to Rostrevor.  A trip to Newry on a Saturday afternoon was spent in Foster’s coffee lounge. Fosters was a family department store with a lovely restaurant. Russian tea was very much in fashion. It was basically black tea served with lemon but we thought at seventeen we were very sophisticated and so Russian tea became the drink to be seen with. They also served the most delicious lemon meringue pie. Many happy hours were spent there, planning IMG_0223for the future. Saturday evenings were spent at the local cinema, the Aurora. The owner, George Tinnelly, was an old romantic and knowing our story allowed me to hide in the shop in the foyer until Gordon arrived, just in case my dad was on the prowl. He became a facilitator for our Saturday nights over the next few years.

Life  was difficult at the weekends. There was constant scrutiny as to where I was going and who I was going with and I had to plan my meetings with Gordon with military precision. Back in Belfast in 1966 there were few means of corresponding. The hostel had a phone but it was always in use.  Phone boxes were not always IMG_0226available or had large queues of people waiting to make a call.  Writing was the other means of correspondence. So we started writing to each other. I still have those letters. Reading back on them now I see how immature we were during that first year. However I still read them from time to time and they bring back such happy memories.

Over the next eight months before Gordon moved to Belfast we managed to see each other at least once during the week. During the week Gordon would borrow his dad’s car to go and play badminton. Now I know this is not legal but he learned how to put the mileage clock on the car back and he then headed for Belfast. His dad thought he was playing badminton locally. I couldn’t wait until the next morning to check the news and be reassured that there were no accidents the previous night. On one occasion he met a car coming towards him on the wrong side of the motorway. Scary times.  I was earning the princely sum of £29 per month so  I supplied the ten shillings for the petrol. Many a night was spent at Shaw’s Bridge sitting in his dad’s Wolsey Hornet. Other nights we went to concerts or the ‘hops’ at the students union. On one occasion he took a mutual friend from Newry with him. We went to see Cream at the students union. The concert ran late and her mother became concerned. She rang my mother and explained that her daughter had gone to a concert with Gordon and Ann in Belfast. Merry hell broke out.

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Apparently there were phone calls to the hostel but as it was after midnight no one answered.  But come the morning I got a right earful and more pressure to break up with Gordon.There were many incidences like that but we were a real couple now and no one was going to break us up.

I was working in Dundonald House at that time.  I had arrived straight from school and was totally bewildered with the officialdom present in the Northern Ireland Civil Service. It was quite stifling. Many employees were ex army officials and ran their sections like a regiment.

My Head of Section came in to work in uniform one day a week ( she belonged to some section of the Territorial army ) but it was off-putting in a work environment. I was also told that she had prided herself in having an all Protestant section until I arrived and upset the apple cart. Such was the ethos in NI in the late sixties. Sexual harassment was also a big problem but there were no laws in those days and most of us had to put up with it. On many occasions I had to fight off older men in positions of power who thought it ok to chase you round the office and in some cases pin you down on your desk. Inappropriate comments were common place. I remember one particular gentlemen ( I use the term gentleman loosely) who I dreaded. He took a shine to me and would send for me to come to his office. He was badly injured in the war and was disfigured. He would leer over the desk and ask me for a kiss. Thankfully he couldn’t move very quickly and so it was possible to move out of his way when he lunged at me. But it was not a pleasant situation and complaining to higher ups was greeted with ‘There’s life in the old boy yet’. Sexual harassment was not treated with any seriousness in the 60’s or 70’s.

I grew up quickly back in those days. I began to get restless living in a hostel. Myself and a few friends I had made started looking around for a flat. We reckoned that there would be a good social life in the University area and so we moved to Cromwell Road. Not long after our move we got to go to our first formal as a couple. One of my flat mates attended the Art College and Gordon and I accompanied her to the annual formal. My dress was a beautiful green sateen with the price tag of £6 and I loved it. I think I got a few more formals out of it. Oh to be that weight again! Looking at the photo now we look like twelve year olds! IMG_0211

When Gordon  moved up to Belfast in July of 67 and he found a flat nearby we had no choice but to become adults living in the real world. Budgeting, cooking and cleaning.  But we were still only 18 and despite all the opposition to our romance we had some good times before the troubles started.

*If you have been a victim of sexual harassment and need confidential advice please click here

https://www.citizensadvice.org.uk/law-and-courts/discrimination/what-are-the-different-types-of-discrimination/sexual-harassment/

Ann Allan :Memories No 8: I Arrive in East Belfast

In September 1966 I headed back to school to study English and French at A level. Gordon and I were still an item. It wasn’t a big deal at home as I hadn’t really got round to mentioning to the family that I was ‘going out’ with a Prod. It was decided that as my academic excellence hadn’t as yet shone through I should also take a night class in typing at Warrenpoint Technical/ Primary school. I could hardly suppress my enthusiasm. Plans were already being made for a secret rendezvous. So on Tech.night I would meet Gordon and we had two precious hours to kill. Many of those nights were spent sitting on the shore, looking over Carlingford Lough. On one occasion we saw a shooting star and I had a wish. It did come true. My mother didn’t get a chance to find out that I never did learn to type until I got a computer.

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Warrenpoint being a small place it didn’t take long for the romance to reach the ears of my parents in Rostrevor. They weren’t amused and I was told that I was to stop seeing Gordon. I was heartbroken but not surprised at the reaction. There were few relationships between different religions in those days and my family was determined that I wasn’t going to be one of them. There had never been any animosity towards our protestant neighbours but dating one was a no-no. Gordon’s parents were oblivious to the romance at this stage. It was, of course, early days and it could easily have come to a natural end, but I was a teenager, quite rebellious and nobody was going to tell me what to do. So the objections made me much more determined and I vowed that they would not break us up.
Those of you that  have read my blogs on Chatter will have noticed that teeth have played a big part in my life and even at this early stage they came into play in directing my future. In September I needed two crowns. Gordon ‘mitched off ‘school and waited while I was at the dentist. I came out frozen to the gills and he suggested we pop into a nearby pub where I could get a cup of tea. If I remember rightly he had a beer. Ok, I know the sight of two students, in full school uniform, from different schools , and on a school day, in a pub sent out the wrong signalimg_0216

I guess the Manager of the pub did too because when I returned to school, I was summoned to the headmistress ‘s office and reprimanded. The parents were informed and I was warned that the romance was to end immediately. I realised then that I was going to be under constant scrutiny and made the decision that I was leaving school. I applied to the Northern Ireland Civil Service and was successful in obtaining a post as a Clerical Officer. I think my parents were secretly quite pleased. The love birds would be split up and the distance would ensure that it couldn’t survive. How wrong they were.

In October 1966 I packed my things and headed for Belfast.

I arrived in Belfast naive and apprehensive. Apart from my trip to France earlier in the summer I had never been away from home on my own. But the pressure of living in Rostrevor had become too great and the local Parish Priest had been tipped off that one of his parishioners was walking out with a young Scottish Protestant. My mother had managed to get me into a hostel in Bryson street, supervised by nuns,  and it was there that I would spend the next nine months or so. I think she thought I’d be safe in the care of the nuns but it didn’t work out like that. We were given a key and could go and come as we pleased!img_0214

Anyway, I arrived in Bryson Street at St. Paul’s hostel. It was run by the Cross and Passion sisters and Sister Adriana was in charge.  We were all afraid of her especially when she took a walk around the hostel. The charge was £2 per week. This was to include breakfast, evening meal and supper. Ten shillings extra if you stayed the weekend. Hot water was provided on a Monday night for two hours, otherwise the water was freezing. By the time we all tried to wash our hair, there was no hot water left. Anything left on the floor of the dorm was confiscated and two old pence per item would be charged for its return. There were about 30 girls in the hostel and we slept in individual cubicles surrounded by a flimsy curtain, our only bit of privacy.

I soon settled in and got to know my way round the area. Some areas are no longer there, having been demolished to make way for a new housing development which became known as Short Strand. Seaforde Street, Chemical Street and the Newtownards Road were part of the local area. A local chip shop on the Newtownards Road helped to sustain us growing girls. They were served in newspaper in those days. A small corner shop at Chemical St or Susan St ( I can’t remember which ) sold cheese from a large block. We were able to buy it by the slice. No Health and Safety in those days. Inglis had a bakery beside the Ropeworks and the pastries were delicious. As we passed the houses on our way to the hostel each evening the residents came out to say hello and everyone was friendly. On many occasions we went over to the Protestant church  on the Newtownards Road and had a chat with the Minister. In those days a trolley bus ticket into town was four old pence and it was possible to walk home in the early hours of the morning from The Orpheus, The Astor and the students union at Queens, crossing the Queens bridge without any hassle. Those were carefree years and we enjoyed them to the full. All the big groups came to Belfast and there was always a show to see. I saw the Beach Boys, Gene Pitney, Neil Sedaka, Them, to mention a few. I saw the premiere of The Sound of Music in the Odeon while the Free Presbyterians demonstrated outside, because of the Catholic theme of the film.
Over the next eight months until Gordon joined me in Belfast we became experts at subterfuge and deceit.

Ben ( Aged 13) : Are Teenagers Slaves to Advertising?

Advertisers today believe that teenagers today are especially susceptible to persuasive devices used in advertising. So much so that advertisers have metaphorically used the term “slaves” to describe teenagers. This is used to emphasise their point, a slave does what his master says.  Advertisers use linguistic,  presentational and persuasive devices to encouage the client to buy the product thus encouraging teenagers to act in a slavish manner. But is it true that teenagers are so easily influenced?

imageThis brings us to product releasing. Companies will build hype up to their next major release, whether it be a game,  a computer or a phone.  They will try and make people as excited as possible about the product . Adults with spare time on their hands, and with persuasion from their children, might even camp outside stores to get their hands on the product before it sells out. Advertising is huge in modern society.  It is practically impossible to escape from it.  Television,  mobile phones, the internet and the newspapers are common places for ads to be found. Typically teenagers use these devices phones, more than the average adult or child, making them more vulnerable to its message. Teenagers are more susceptible to it,  but cannot afford the products. If the consumer has no money to buy the item and no purchase has made, the advertisers attempt at selling the product has essentially failed.

Teenagers normally get pocket money, which is usually very limited.  Older teens may have a job with a small income, but even older teenagers can’t buy everything they see, making the advertising industry a battle between companies to make their products appeal more to the public.
Teenagers are also less responsible with money, so are more likely to go on a shopping spree, or make ‘impulse buys’ based on an advert  which made the product look attractive.
Teenagers have little time to buy things.  They have school,  which means they can’t take a day off whenever they want to go shopping.

 

Most teens want to break free from the ways of the previous generation. They don’t like being told what to do and that creates the urge to do things differently.  This gives teens a sense of individuality,  rebellion and power, so manufacturers that use this to their advantage will be more successful. Teenagers want to be liked by their friends or peers, and in school will try to become popular.  Being  in possession of material things give students a higher sense of self worth and boosts fragile egos.  Adverts that play on this make the consumer think they’ll become cool and appealing if they purchase the product.  This can cause rivalry between teenagers with competition to buy the better product or the newer phone.
imageIn TV advertisements  humour or repetition can be used to make the ad more memorable. This is especially effective with teenagers as they are more receptive.  They  are generally more easily entertained and if the advert is very entertaining they can make it an inside joke in their friendship group. Making the advert memorable it becomes iconic and so makes it more likely that they will want to buy it.

Teenagers are individuals and like different things. and they  have different morals and beliefs.  Popularity isn’t important to some people but it is to others, so they will buy products that boost their popularity.
Another thing that may make teens buy a product is when it is sponsered by a celebrity.  I personality wouldnt be that influenced but if I was choosing between two products and one was sponsored by Demi Lovato, I’d buy that one.  This is because teenagers imageidolise celebrities and see them as role models because they are cool. Most want to aspire to be rich, famous, and talented.  Some celebrities are just famous for being famous.  Celebreties such as Paris Hilton or the Kardashians, yet, people still idolise them.

As I mentioned before, teenagers are individuals, not mindless robots that buy without thought. They do think for themselves and decide whether they really need the product. Advertising helps them make a more informed choice. Without it, they would be making more impulse buys.

So in conclusion,  teenagers are definitely influenced by advertising. However I wouldn’t go as far as to say they are slaves because they are under no direct control by these advertisements. They are simply there to help people make more informed purchases and convince the consumer to buy the product. Teenagers can think for themselves and make a sensible decision on whether to buy or not to buy.   Part of that decision will be affected by the points previously mentioned. This does make them more susceptible to advertising, but not under complete control.

Áine McGrath: Plane Fed Up

imageI remember it so well, my first trip abroad. France, 1988 with my eldest sister, her husband and their four children. We went Eurocamping in an overloaded Ford Escort, back in the days when it was OK to carry more passengers than what your car was designed to carry. The boot was crammed with stuff and the roof rack was full to capacity, with a few more things tied on, just incase we needed them. We had to stop and pick our sleeping bags up off the Drumcondra Road in Dublin after the rope on the roof rack came loose and our belongings were propelled onto the car travelling behind us.

I recall some of the “essentials” I packed for that holiday: a personal stereo, a selection of cassette tapes, a tennis racquet, bottles of sun cream and all my horse-riding gear. All stuff that was compact and lightweight (tongue-in-cheek!) Tonight, almost 25 years later I’m trying to cram all my “essentials” for a trip to Poland into a piece of hand luggage that’s smaller than most modern handbags. Nail clippers and a handy wee penknife are no-nos: they’d be confiscated at the airport. I can’t bring my favourite moisturiser, nor can I bring my own shampoo, shower gel, toothpaste nor a bottle of water. I can bring a toothbrush, but my lip balm has to be in a sealed, clear plastic bag. I can’t bring my laptop because that would be counted as a second piece of hand luggage and I’m only allowed to bring one (the one that will contain my meagre supply of “essentials.”) I’ll have to wear my coat (it won’t fit into my hand luggage) and one pair of shoes is just going to have to do. I’ll be expected to strip in public at airport security, so there’d better not be any holes in my socks. When I’m being frisked I can watch some of the security guys rifling through my “essentials” – so there’d better not be any holes in the knickers I’ve packed either. And even though I’m travelling abroad, my passport won’t be stamped: we’re all “Europeans now, apparently.image

Forgive me for being a misery guts but to me, getting from A to B across an international boundary has become one hell of a chore. With increasing globalisation and increased airport security, travel has lost a lot of its romance and charm. Also, you can’t always shop at the Duty Free, and Tesco’s or Boots are probably a lot cheaper for much of the stuff now anyway! In fact, there’s a fair chance that you’ll find a Tesco at your chosen destination…

Yes, it’s nice to see and experience other places but I don’t travel so much any more, even though travel is much cheaper and more accessible than it ever was before. One vital ingredient of any trip abroad – the getting there and back – has now become a nuisance aspect rather than something that can be celebrated, appreciated and enjoyed.

Áine McGrath: Sandwiches.

imageThe other day I popped into a sandwich bar to buy something for my lunch and as I was waiting to be served, a man in his sixties walked in with two children, aged around 10 or 11. The man looked a bit flustered, and had the demeanour of someone who wasn’t familiar with the process of ordering custom-made sandwiches. Just to make conversation, I asked the children “well, are you off school for Hallowe’en?”

That got the conversational ball rolling and I learned that the two young people were off school for a whole week and a half. I don’t recall ever getting a week and a half off school at Hallowe’en: to my mind we only ever got a couple of days off! How times have changed! The children’s grandfather chirped up “Jaysus, I don’t now what to do with these two! I brought them in here to give them somethin’ to do. They’re doin’ my head in!” It was clear that granda was on childminding duty… He watched in agitated awe as the children ordered their sandwiches with aplomb, reeling off the names of sandwich fillings that their granda had probably never heard of. Gesturing towards them he said “God knows what they’re atin’! All this stuff here…God knows what’s in it! I tell ya, it’s not like it was years ago, a good feed a’ spuds, ye knew what ye wur gettin’. It was all good stuff. Is it any wonder people’s all dying o’ cancer? It’s the food we’re atin’, the stress, the fumes from all them cars out there. It’s not a bit o’ wonder people’s all sick nowadays. People aren’t living as long nowadays.” I agreed with him, and told him of the centenarians on my maternal grandmother’s side of the family: her family all lived to be ripe old ages, the youngest passing away at the age of 87.

The man paid for the sandwiches, again despairing of the ingredients contained within which he considered potentially devastating to his grandchildren’s health and their overall longevity. Still agitated, he gestured towards the children and said to me “love, wud ye keep an eye on them two a wee minute? I’m away outside fur a wee smoke…”

The irony!!!

Ann Allan: Memories No 7 Back to school.

In August 1966 I returned from my exchange holiday in France. The exchange bit hadn’t really sunk in until I got home. I guess I hadn’t really thought it through but soon realised that it was up to me to entertain MF the girl who came back with me. While I was away life was going on and my girlfriends had all managed to get themselves a boyfriend. MF was somewhat parochial in outlook and her one purpose in visiting  Ireland was to actually learn the language. So rather than get back on the Warrenpoint dating scene (not much happened in Rostrevor) I found my new companion was cramping my style. She accompanied me constantly and was a great French gooseberry.  (Am I allowed to say that?)  Mind you there weren’t that many opportunities as most fellows were already taken. Not that that seemed to matter much.IMG_2339 2When I finally bid MF bon voyage, in the third week of August, I was asked to go to the pictures (cinema) in the Aurora in Rostrevor.  One of the guys in our crowd had asked me out. I was curious as to why he kept disappearing but quickly found out he had asked another girl out and she was on the other side of the cinema. That romance didn’t last long. Did it JT?

As the summer came to an end a party was organised for a final get together before we all settled back into school and exams that would probably determine our futures. Most of my friends were going out with someone but I was still single.  J.T. had managed to get himself a girl and suggested I go to the party with his friend Gordon.  No way I said remembering the response I had received to my last invite.

So I headed off to the party on my own. The music was playing and it was a packed room. When a guy who I wasn’t in the least interested in started to chat me up and was becoming a nuisance I starting backing away. In the half-light I sat down on the couch and turned round to see that it was the infamous Gordon sitting beside me. I can still remember what he was wearing, hipster trousers and a checked shirt. He was tanned and his black hair made him look Italian. Amazing how your perceptions can change. It was love at first sight, on my part at least. We chatted and it all seemed very natural. He asked me to dance and it was a ‘slow’ one. Someone turned the lights out and the future Mr and Mrs Allan had their first kiss.

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I left the party in a daze. Love was in the air. Arrangements were made to meet in the Cosmo. The Cosmo was a chippy with a jukebox where we used to sit for hours, usually over one coffee and a chip shared between half a dozen of us. The juke box was playing that well known 60’s Classic ‘They’re coming to take me away’ by that never heard of again singer Napoleon XIV. Must have been an omen. So on that Sunday afternoon I waited, and waited and waited but there was no sign of our young Lothario. Sadly I headed home.

Didn’t expect to hear from him again. Not sure whether he was playing hard to get, but on bumping into him (ok, so I kept walking around until I bumped into him ), he said he couldn’t make it cause his granny was visiting and she was a Baptist and it was Sunday. Well it was an original excuse, don’t you think?

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We were now a couple. On the evening before we returned to school we stood on the roof of the local baths (if you aren’t from the Point you wouldn’t understand ) and there was the most beautiful full moon shining over and reflecting on Carlingford Lough. It lit the sea up and it looked as if there were little pools of light dancing on the water. Someone’s transistor was booming out the Troggs’ ‘ I want to spend my life with a girl like you ‘ I can still see it. It was so romantic but as we stood there we realised any romance was going to be tough.

I don’t think we realised how tough. He was at the time one of themuns and I was at the time one of the other ones. But we were young, somewhat naive and we probably thought it would be a teenage romance and it wouldn’t last.

I was never aware of religion being a problem as I grew up. We played with the children who attended the Protestant school. Religion was never discussed. We didn’t know we were any different. We went through all the motions as Catholics. Church on a Sunday, confession once a week, without any realisation of what we were actually doing. We hated confession and tried to avoid it. You really have to make up sins when you are at primary school. As I grew older I observed the traditions less and less. When I met Gordon, and our romance progressed, I saw the ugly side of religion. All of a sudden people’s real feelings came to the surface and that age-old hatred and mistrust became evident. It seemed it was all right to be friendly but it was another matter to intermarry. The next four years were to be some of the worst of my life and yet they formed who I am today and made me a stronger person. My relationship with the church and religion was being slowly eroded.

Ann Allan: Memories No. 6 Lost in France

I awoke on my first morning in France tired from lack of sleep and unsure where I was. It was a bit overwhelming for a naive seventeen year old. The sound of a train chugging near to my window reminded me fairly quickly. I opened the wooden shutters to be greeted with the most idyllic garden bathed in warm sunlight. Those of you who have been to France will know what I mean, when I say, that it didn’t smell or feel like home. It was … well it was…. French. I dressed quickly dusting myself in Morney’s sandalwood talc. I only have to get a whiff of sandalwood all these years later, to be transported back to that room in St. Marcellin. Breakfast was served in the garden. Fresh croissants and a sweet cake were breakfast fare. What appeared to be a large soup bowl was put in front of me but instead of soup, there was tea. I hesitated unsure what to do. The rest of the family drank the tea straight from the bowl and I with some amusement did too. We would not
do that at home, I thought.

My two weeks in St.Marcellin were spent absorbing French life. Many things were different. My French friend openly lit up her cigarette and smoked in front of her parents. That would never have been allowed back home in 1966. Over the two weeks I experienced French life and was taken to the places of interest in the area. To the amphi theatre in Vienne, to Romans with its beautiful St. Bernard church, Pont en Royans with its three castles and it’s hanging houses clinging to the cliffs, Valence, with its colorful history. A beautiful part of France bordering on the edge of the Vercors national park. I returned there many years later with my own family

After two weeks we packed up and went to Grenoble where we stayed overnight in an apartment belonging to the family. A shopping spree in one of the department stores helped deplete my pocket-money but I wanted to bring something to the family back home. We packed up once again and headed for a Citroen CV parked outside. To my amazement the 18 year-old sister took the steering wheel and we set off. For a while it was fine but then we began to ascend. The roads became like country lanes and the sheer drop below was terrifying. The two sisters and their brothers started singing songs one of which I suspect was a French version of ‘Now is the Hour.’ I covered my eyes and concentrated on trying not to be sick.

When we arrived in St.Bonnet I was white as a sheet and unable to greet the relatives who rushed out to meet ‘ la petite Irlandaise.’ As they were about to give me the traditional kiss on each cheek I threw up. The combination of the drive and the lack of food had made me decidedly queasy. I must explain that I had not adapted to the French menu and was living on Rice Krispies and boiled eggs. I had been taken to the nearest shop in desperation and in the hope I might see something I could eat. Thankfully cereals had reached France in 1966. I had also discovered that the family stored a huge number of chocolate bars in the food cupboard. When I woke up in the middle of the night starving, I would tiptoe down and help myself. Imagine my embarrassment when on one occasion, I turned to go back to bed, salivating from the chocolate, and there was Madame B standing at the kitchen door. I muttered something in English, made a few gestures about being hungry and beat a hasty retreat. The house also had a cellar filled with cheeses. The smell was ..well, it wasn’t very pleasant and I dreaded when I was asked to go down and bring  some up to the kitchen. I have to admit I was getting homesick at this stage. I consoled myself by listening to Adamo on an old fashioned record player. Adamo was top of the french hit parade and I loved his haunting melodies. I still have the L.P. I bought back then.

Lack of communication was a big problem. I was now receiving letters from home. It had taken all this time for them to reach me; such was the speed of the postal service in France in the sixties. My family were on holidays in Bunbeg,  Co.Donegal, one of my favourite places and I was quite jealous. I had no money left. This was remedied by a rare phone call home when my dad asked Madame B to give me some money and he would refund it. With the money I went to the local hairdresser in the village and had my beautiful long auburn hair cut short. Not sure whether it was the altitude that affected my brain. However, what I had done hit home when the hairdresser handed me my hair tied in a ponytail. My mum had to look twice when the bus from the airport pulled up at the Gresham Hotel.

I saw plenty of the  Hautes Alpes region.  The skiing resorts of Orcieres and Merylette were close by and Gap was the nearest big town. I had by now got used to the narrow roads. My favourite trip was the Route de Napoleon that took us though Aix-en Provence, passing the many fields of vines and culminating in my first sight of the Côte D’ Azur and the Mediterranean sparkling in the sunshine.  A bit ironic that the watch that had given me such a fright during my first night in France was stolen from the car as we bathed in the Mediterranean. I was taken by the family to Grenoble where the watch was replaced by a much more expensive one than the one that had been stolen!

yachts-in-the-italian-mediterranean-coast-known-as-cinque-terre-giancarlo-liguori

 Though I enjoyed most of my time in France I was glad to be home. As I headed home at the end of July, little did I know that the month of August 1966 would determine my future.